So many of life's little pleasures have evaporated; speaking for myself, slowly and without notice, nearly all my golfing indulgences have been sacrificed at the altar of pressing demands.
One by one by two by none.
Yet, once the devils and their relentless treadmills crowd out the joy of fellowship, what is left but trudgery? (sic)
Years ago, I knew a woman who had a screen-saver crawl across her computer that read: "What are your big rocks?"
If you are the only person in America who has not read this tale - or you come from a country with better perspective on the ephemeral nature of existence, here is a link:
http://www.familyeducation.com/article/0,1120,1-33301,00.htmlIronically, the most violative offender of the *Big Rock" life theory was the very same woman, but that did not diminish the message.
She is still ignoring the boulders and hyperventilating on the importance of each grain of sand, a cautionary tale for another day that I am fearful of repeating.
Thus, I call upon the Treehouse Royals to deliver us from our own apathetic impotence and resurrect KP before it is too late and we all drift apart.
As for Treehouse civility, it is easy, like the orangutans at the zoo, to sling feces from the safety of a cage.
It is a far different matter when you are seated across the table and know the dawn will bring a battle against the same adversary at the game we all share.
I've lost my place on whether the next battle is in Scotland or England; no matter, the field of play is a puny issue compared with the combatants.
Santa Barbara sounds enticing if anybody is looking for a suggestion . . . .
The vision of renting a convertible in L.A. and blasting "Ventura Highway" at full volume up the coast has the allure of eternal youth.
If we can recapture that feeling, even for a moment, it is possible to feast off that snapshot in time forever.
It cannot be done alone.